


Stars Through His Soul

by fandomscolliding



Category: Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: M/M, Wickling - Freeform, billy/teddy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:56:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomscolliding/pseuds/fandomscolliding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Verse: Drabble: The Shape of Happiness<br/>A short collection of drabbles about two of my favorite Young Avengers.<br/>“Teddy sometimes wondered how far he’d go for the boy in his arms…Billy, he knew, would tear the world apart for him (granted he could build it up again, but still, it was terrifying that sometimes the whole of reality hinged upon his happiness).”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Through His Soul

Teddy sometimes wondered how far he’d go for the boy in his arms. (He’d walk to the ends of the earth (even though earth had no end)) Sometimes Billy whispered words onto his skin, his lips barely brushing him, the edges of his words etching themselves in goose bumps across his lips, his neck, his fingertips, and he thought he'd go just about anywhere to follow this person of skin and bones and magic. 

Billy, he knew, would tear the world apart for him (granted he could build it up again, but still, it was terrifying that sometimes the whole of reality hinged upon his happiness). 

 

He lets his fingers graze of the raised edge of a scar, half faded, a crescent of white against a tan backdrop. He wonders, absently, when Billy got this one. It wasn’t there a week ago, and there had been a whole host of villains that could have done this. 

And for a moment he feels rage, white hot, turning his vision red, because he wants to tear apart whoever did this. Because Billy’s got enough scars (most you can’t see) and each new one feels like a personal offense against him, and he feels Billy’s pain like an echo against his heart. And he’s just a little bit scared because he would do it, he really would (the only thing stopping him is how much Billy would hate himself if Teddy did something evil for or because of him). 

 

Sometimes he woke up to Billy whispering in his sleep, working magic from his dream into reality. (I want Teddy to be okay) And it would bring back memories and pain would flare like an afterimage through old wounds long closed. (How many times had he heard those words like a prayer when they were trapped or fighting or when he was bleeding out, the ragged edges of his skin woven together by nothing more than wishes.)

 

Billy runs his hands down his chest and whispers sin into his skin, the words sinking like stones in water until they reached his soul, and Teddy cant help but drown in the words, wanting more and more and nothing but Billy’s skin pressed against his. 

 

Sometimes Teddy says things he shouldn’t to Billy. (What if we ran away? We could do it, you and me, together, just us. We could really do it.) And Billy gets this faraway look in his eyes and says that maybe they should. 

Sometimes Billy says things he shouldn’t even think about (We could leave the capes behind, you and me. We could have a family, just us and our kids. I could be a soccer dad and you could make them love math.) And Teddy thinks about it and pauses for a beat before whispering that they can do all of that anyway. (Because even if they sometimes wished it weren’t true, they were heroes and they could never really give that up.)

 

The first time he gets truly and properly drunk, all he can think about is how Billy’s eyes are the exact color of sunlight through whiskey. 

 

In school they make him write a paper about all the things he loves—it’s supposed to be creative, eclectic, it’s supposed to make them think about how they loved the color of sunsets and the smell of fresh cut grass. But all Teddy can come up with is that one time Billy got hurt, really hurt. He remembers every second, the way the grit crunched beneath his feat as stumbled up the steps to the Avengers Mansion, screaming himself hoarse, begging someone, anyone to help (oh God there was so much blood and Billy wasn’t breathing). He recalls, in minute detail, the way tears trembled, like dewdrops, caught in Billy’s thick black lashes, his eyes (the color of amber and honey) gone flat, unseeing. Teddy remembers them taking Billy from him, and he remembers waiting (the words I want Billy to be okay like a demand and a plea on his lips, the taste of terror like a new penny on the back of his tongue) unable to breath or think or do much of anything but feel like his heart had been ripped out and his own life had been cut short. 

After he writes that particular piece (and it’s eccelctic and creative because even if it’s their true selves, he can’t exactly give away their secret identities) they send him to a counselor, and the Avengers send Cap to talk to him. But to Teddy, all the things he loves are conveniently packaged in the shape of a boy that he never intended to pin his hopes on. It makes him think that he’d give up every sunset on every planet in every reality if it meant he’d never have to lose Billy, that he’d do almost anything (terrible things, horrible things), make deals with every and any entity if it meant Billy would be okay.


End file.
